He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. Kneebone took his leave. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. ” Then he went on to say: “Well, you’ve had your little adventure, and I hope now you’ve had enough of it. . ‘I must. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. . “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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