“It’s my fault. You will observe that a coronet is embroidered on it. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. The one problem was that it didn’t fly. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned. “I believe it is. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion.
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