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‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. “Leave them!” He yelled. When is the game?\" She did her best to overhaul her own appearance for 63 the greater part of an hour, blotting lips, fluffing the brush over her face. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “It was a phase,” she said.

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