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Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. The Supper at Mr. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard.
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