" "Well, Sir," gasped Mrs. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. Let’s go. Drawing the pay of life and then not living. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers.
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