She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. Lad, I admire you even in your folly. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual.
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