Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. 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. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. . “Don’t ask me to tell you all that women can do, all that women can be. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head.
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