The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Mr. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall.
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