“My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. “It is a hateful story. Not enough of them to make a difference. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. Last time— you made me feel snubbed. When he begins to notice things, I want you to trap his interest, to amuse him, keep his thoughts from reverting to his misfortunes. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. “Please forgive me. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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