" "He's let out for a few hours," laughed Kneebone; "but he's going back again after supper. One keeps rules in order to be one’s self. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. He resented being regarded as irregular. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
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