Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. Managers and accountants are always shifting about, so he tells me. She thought of Capes. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. Anna was unimpressed. Sanguine they were not. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. "Give me the child, or—" As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. . ‘So it is that you have made Jacques betray me. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. I’ve made an ally of her champion.
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