But I don’t want to. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. 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. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes.
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