our.

"And how is your sciatica?" he asked.

"Oh, pretty bad," returned his mother; "I expect it's all right, really.
Cheer up!" She stretched her little figure, canting her head still more.

"Wonderful woman!" Shelton thought. She had, in fact, like many of her
fellow-countrymen, mislaid the darker side of things, and, enjoying the
benefits of orthodoxy with an easy conscience, had kept as young in heart
as any girl of thirty.

Shelton left her house as doubtful whether he might meet Antonia as when
he entered it. He spent a restless afternoon.

The next day--that of her arrival--was a Sunday. He had made Ferrand a
promise to go with him to hear a sermon in the slums, and, catching at
any diversion which might allay excitement, he fulfilled it. The
preacher in question--an amateur, so Ferrand told him--had an original
method of distributing the funds that he obtained. To male sheep he gave
nothing, to ugly female sheep a very little, to pretty female sheep the
rest. Ferrand hazarded an inference, but he was a foreigner. The
Englishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purely
abstract love of beauty. His eloquence, at any rate, was unquestionable,
and Shelton came out feeling sick.

It was not yet seven o'clock, so, entering an Italian restaurant to kill
the half-hour before Antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for
his companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting a cigarette,
compressed his lips. There was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart.
His companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled his
roll, and blew smoke through his nostrils, glancing caustically at the
rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet, the
chandeliers. His juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, "Ah! if you only
knew of the dirt behind these feathers!" Shelton watched him with
disgust. Though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quite
clean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone. An anaemic waiter
in a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments and a
crumpled napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtful
fruits, and reading an Italian journal. Resting his tired feet in turn,
he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limb accused
the sordid smartness of the walls. In the far corner sat a lady eating,
and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, round face, its
coat of powder, and dark