Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. But this I cannot do. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. . It’s these damned novels. And now—Dear! Dear! The dayspring from on high hath visited me. "He's about to cross the river. He only stays here for you, hoping in vain.
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