Wood trembled. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons at an armoury, in racks against the walls. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. But it would serve. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. She pushed. Kneebone, he took his departure.
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