On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. He had done it. “Get me some brandy and my bag. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. “You must not think of me as one.
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