The Times slipped from his fingers. "Intruding!" echoed Mrs. " "I dare say no such thing," interposed his better half, authoritatively; "remain where you are, Sir. . Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate. ” “Shirts?” “Shirts at one—and—something a dozen. I'll be quiet. “Mr. “Is it your maid?” he asked. “I told you I did not love you. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. I'll think no more about her.
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