"The most beautiful in all the world;" but he was not looking at the oak.
"Think of it! It's many centuries old. Empires and kingdoms have risen and vanished. It was here when Michelangelo and Raphael and Titian were ragamuffins in the populous streets; it was leafing when Petrarch indited pages to his Laura; when Dante gazed melancholily upon his Beatrice—Oh, what a little time we have!"
"Then let us make the most of it," he said.
He reached for her hand, which lay upon the cover; but, without apparent notice of his movement, she drew back her hand.
"I have waited patiently for weeks."
She faced him with an enigmatical smile, lighted a match, blew it out, and drew a line across the center of the table.
He laughed. "What, again?"
"Observe."
"Why, there is a break in it!" eagerly and joyously.
She leaned over. "So there is;" but there was no surprise in her voice.