She hoped desperately that Mrs. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. She had eaten them. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. “Yes, John. Now the baby’s bright May eyes peered up at her intently. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot.
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