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” The maid discreetly withdrew, and Anna stood transfixed, gazing with puzzled frown at her sister. “No. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. You will stop at once. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She was very greatly exercised by the two systems of values—the two series of explanations that her comparative anatomy on the one hand and her sense of beauty on the other, set going in her thoughts. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. Before you know where you are you find yourself in a complication. As a sex you’re a little under-trained—in affairs. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. But here’s what is different this time.
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