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“Thank you—and good-bye. . . ” The hand lingered too long. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. Nothing ensued. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. It was then, I am sure, empty.
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