" "Zounds!" exclaimed Wood; "it's my old master-key. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. “It’s my fault. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. ’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. " "Do not delay," cried Thames.
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