A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. 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. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. " "My wealth," replied Mrs. Be warned by your father's fate. He winced from the wasp-like sting.
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