" "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. “Eight, Cavendish Square. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. He was not a sailor. ’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. .
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