The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. "But it won't do. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. And it hampers us. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood.
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