“Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. “So, Rhea must have known you for what you are. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. 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. I never could. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day.
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