He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Come back with me to-night. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence.
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