And then suddenly—a relief. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. “Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. ’ Trodger had started towards the stairs, signing to his men to get behind the lady. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. They sold him the whisky.
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