" "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that. The thought of beauty became an obsession. It is you who took my name, not I yours. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. " "Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. This—all this swamps them.
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