He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. “Not possible. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not.
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