“You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house. “I wrote it for you. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. This gloom was impossible. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. ” “Auntie?” asked Constance, who was conversant with Ann Veronica’s affairs. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. " "For shame, Mr.
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