She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. It’s a damned hard thing to do.
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