"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. "I should like to meet the man who would dare to gainsay it. "If you mean to accompany us, you may need it.
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