She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. But his lips were honourlocked. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. He made the universe on those lines. S. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel.
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