At last he could bear it no longer. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. The first peg was torture. As long as your son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer.
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