“Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. I worship you. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “I won’t give you a check though—Yes, I will. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts.
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