"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. “It is in your hands from now on, Shar. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. It will take at least three weeks. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap.
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