There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. "You know this is a pet project.
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