She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. It’s not you—not a bit. You will stop at once. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand.
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