It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy.
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