"In case he should consent—" "He never will," interrupted Winifred. Sheppard now directed her steps. This also struck her as odd. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. They were drenched with water and suds. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. "I read those stories. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. ’ So that was it. Be honest, and you will be happy.
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