He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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