He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. She prevaricated. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon. “Well,” she said. She disengaged her hands and stood up.
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