Then the lady smiled and her radiance, even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly. His lips were tight drawn. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Wood laughed louder than ever. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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