Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. " "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. He wanted her named Mary. "I generally do," replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack.
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