But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. I never want you to be ashamed of me. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. "You want me, then?" she said. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up.
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