" "You flatter me," smiled Sir James. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. She wanted to know. She appeared to be considering. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John’s company. The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born.
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