The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions.
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