The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Too many. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame.
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