He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. 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. He did not explain what had happened to her. He would have to return to Hong-Kong; and his trail would be picked up the moment he set foot on the Praya. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person.
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