She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. . Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. 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.
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