Gerald went through all the papers in front of Gosse and that woman of his, one by one. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. We two.
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