" "I wish I could, Joan," returned the carpenter, sadly. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. “We have been all this time—Only your queer code of honor—Honor! Once you begin with love you have to see it through. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. “Let me know the truth. ’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. No! not even the derivation! But the fashion’s been set and in it you must be.
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