“I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. Wood, in indignant surprise. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. Go off and live together—until we can marry. I'm heading for bed. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. "Not my king's," returned Wood. Luck. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts.
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