“Queer letters he writes,” she said. " "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. " "That is your fault, none of mine. ” “Kate who?” Lucy asked. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. It cuts. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. E.
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