These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. Easily. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. The flat was apparently empty. “I wrote it for you. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. Never mind. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. It is at the lodge that we stay.
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