"Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. Epithalamy might do. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them.
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