" "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess. Wily little devil she is. ” “You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. He did not have to. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead.
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