"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “I think that’s the right name. “You should quit. “As things are at present,” she said, “it is true. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. Still—you must learn for yourself. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. “Rather darker than most of them. Finally Lucy replied.
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