She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. Suddenly he understood what had happened. And where was that devil? Had the soldiers found him? She could not think he had escaped, for she had only just made it into the passage as they entered the library. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely.
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