Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. She had been quite convinced that an engagement with him and at last a marriage had exactly that quality of compromise which distinguishes the ways of the wise. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. . . He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. In the first place, it will be damnably dull. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. ’ He called through the library door. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.
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