The bag-affair is quite an old one now--a fortnight old.

The bag itself has, I believe, retired into the decent privacy of a cupboard, nor is it much more likely to reissue thence than was one of the frail nuns built into the wall in the old times likely to come stepping out again.

Bobby has at length ceased to offer me every object which it devolves upon him to hand me, with a quavering voice and a prolonged stammer, since, though I was at first excellently vulnerable by this weapon of offense, I am now becoming _hornily_ hard and indifferent to it.

We have stepped over the boundaries of June into July.
Yes, June has gone to look for all its dead brothers, wherever--since they say nothing is ever really lost--they lie with their stored sweets.
To me, this has been as merry and good a June as any one of my nineteen.
Sir Roger is beginning to talk of going home--_his_ home, that is--but rather diffidently and tentatively, as if not quite sure whether the proposal will meet with favor in my eyes.

He need not be nervous on this point.