There was another little thing he had to say. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. See paragraph 1. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean.
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