And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. “This place is very beautiful. And of course! She had a brilliant idea. Gregory B. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Other girls gathered around like sheep. I will make her my Grail, and some day, perhaps, if God wills, she shall become my wife!’” He looked very hard before him as he said this, and his voice was full of deep feeling.
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