He looked at her, hurt. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. She could not say a word, much less move. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters.
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