Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She laughed altogether in her old manner. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. ’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case.
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