She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. “In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag.
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