Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. "No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. She was nestled under his bedspread. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief.
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