"My portrait!" echoed Jack. I love you—with all my heart and soul. " The lad made no answer, but left the room. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. I think she might be up to something. ” “Who cooked it all?” He asked. And then they disgorged. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. It is you who took my name, not I yours. I want to get away. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you.
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