“I do not suppose he will be home till late. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. You know I am in love with you. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. “I do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life.
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