Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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