” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. She had been so young then. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. .
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