The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Wood, contemptuously. “I am already so hungry that I shall begin on the petit pains. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. Englishmen also certainly. G'night, kids. Drink the toast, Jack.
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