" "Since you require it, I must obey," replied Kneebone; "but prepare yourself for a terrible shock. My nerves were in rags. Besides ——” She stopped short. ’ Gerald eyed her with interest. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting.
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