The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. This gloom was impossible. She looked at Lucy guiltily, wondering if she would be betrayed. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. “As she asked!” “It is already too late.
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