For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. But I never betray an old customer. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. Wood, leaping from the bed. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. To-morrow I am going to Paris. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. Let’s go. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom.
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