"Only the dog," replied the rough tones of a man. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. He awoke, strangely content.
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