“We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. ” “It is an accident,” he answered. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Ireton, you are in league with him. You were content, and I came to thrive on your happiness. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. “I must read him when I come out.
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