He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night.
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