Knew something was up. Mrs. 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. But days had now passed. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. The cloth nearly touches the floor. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham.
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