Gerald realised Lucy had taken the hint, for she dragged her betrothed towards the door. " "Come, my disconsolate darlings," cried Austin, "it only wants five minutes to six. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. She hung for a moment, and then went on, conclusively, “Until we have the vote that is how things WILL be. . . The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense.
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