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Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. "Let the gentleman take his own course," said Jonathan, mildly. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting.
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