" CHAPTER VI. " "I wish I could, Joan," returned the carpenter, sadly. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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