"If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. I know. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. They were sitting alone, Lucy. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes.
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