Mother and Son. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. There it was—to be borrowed. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. "We shall never be able to get you out unseen, Jack," whispered Poll Maggot. " "Faithful fellow!" murmured Jack. You see, I’m selfish. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. “Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across.
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