” “Out with it, then,” he cried, almost roughly. There was one letter. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. "My child!" he groaned faintly. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. "I suppose I must have been senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in my head, and the ground covered with blood. She was poor.
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