“I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. It feels like it. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. For a time they were very difficult. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham.
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