Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. I know you. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. “No, no,” she cried. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Meet me.
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