"I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. 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. The order was promptly obeyed, and the horses proceeded at a furious pace along the Edgeware Road. But what else he saw fit to teach her I do not care to stipulate. ” “That is so,” Anna admitted. She did not forge a note.
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