“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Gosse took a step or two towards the centre of the room. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.
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