It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. I’ve told you that practically already. It melted her heart. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. Here one might live the life of golden days. The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. “Women know these things by instinct,” she answered.
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