Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. "What for?" demanded Wood. This isn’t the place. “I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. But she veiled her feelings. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. The service began.
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