We were only—les autres. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. The ragged edge. God help me. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. "But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend.
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