'" "What is that?" she asked. It was clear it must be to-morrow. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. " "Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson.
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