"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Petals!. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. Miraculously, her schoolmates were so upswept in their own summer planning that they had no time to interrogate her. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations.
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