CHAPTER I. “I came to London unexpectedly, and my friends could not take me in. ” “May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. She pointed across the road. He had something across his knees. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. They could not go on. We have so much to be thankful for.
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