Gerald went through all the papers in front of Gosse and that woman of his, one by one. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. ‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue.
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