“I wish that I could forget it,” he said. Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. . '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. He had a wild impulse to shout. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends.
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