The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. You made that thing?” “From a kit. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. ‘You said it. .
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