McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. 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. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. It was fastened inside. Drummond had made an abominable mistake. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her.
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