She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. ” For a moment she was grave. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. And now YOU’RE on the war-path. 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. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience.
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