a ring. All this was rather unusual and disquieting. Imszanski flushed slightly; a warm haze, so thin that it could scarce be seen, bedimmed his eyes, and his long lashes drooped over them.
Wildenhoff, an unpleasant cut-and-dried sort of man, whose humour inclined to sarcastic silence, proposed that we should pass into a private room. She protested.
"Oh, no! I dearly love noise and music and an uproar all about me. We had better stay here, hadn't we?"
Wildenhoff smiled at his wife and was presently deep in study of the bill of fare.
She again set to laughing without any cause: a disquieting sort of chuckle, with something like a sob now and then.
I glanced at the two couples, feeling a twinge of envy. "There is love between them"…
Oh, but all that was so very, very long ago!
I wish Stephen would fall in love with me. But he is always running after some theory or other. At times he is as droll as a boarding-school girl. I do believe his friendship for me to be absolutely disinterested. He, on his side, declares that a handsome woman, as such,
