But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. ” “Shall we go now?” “I think I would like to listen to music. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. I hate to see you spoil yourself with guys like me.
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