The Pursuit. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. " "I am calm—quite calm, Rowland," she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words. "Adorable girl, I have long loved you to desperation. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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