“But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes.
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