There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. “I find it very hard to write this letter. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island.
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