The terror faded from her eyes. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. “Forgive me,” he said. His skill has not been tried. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know.
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