Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Better come another morning.
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