He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. “My charm of manner, I suppose.
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