The gong will go at seven-thirty. That’s the wonder of it. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside.
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