The Supper at Mr. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. " "Can you make me honest?" cried Jack. You sent back my Christmas checks. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. ” She wondered how much history she could reinvent before losing track of her own lies. Jack's nose was broad and flat; Darrell's straight and fine as that of Antinous. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. .
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