"Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. The young lady I was with is not married at all. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. ‘Don’t be silly. And she was as shrewd as they come. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. Living’s just material. .
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