“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Not so Gosse. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. John eased off.
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