"Good-by, then," he said, picking up his hat.

"You may as well stay to lunch," his hostess said rising.

"No," returned he. "I must go and write to Edith."

And off he went, humming:

"'Twere errant folly to presume
Love's flame could burn and not consume."




II.

THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.
Measure for Measure; iv--i.

As many of the Boston clocks as ever permitted themselves so far to
break through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper,
had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group of
men seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of the
sitting-rooms of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up.
Indeed, the room was so pleasant and warm, with its artistically
combined colors, its good pictures and glowing grates, and the storm
outside raged so savagely, beating its wind and sleet against the
windows, that a reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was only
natural, and there would be little room for surprise should the men
conclude to remain where they were until daylight.