They were horrible people. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. ” “You alarm me,” she murmured, smiling. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans.
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