“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family.
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