Because their human lives were so short, the happily married had no time to get sick of one another. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose.
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