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"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. You went even to our rooms and saw my sister. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. ” They left the restaurant just as the rain slowed to a dull trickle, the fury of the storm exhausted, having left mirror puddles in its wake. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith.
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