“Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is.”

“Mr. Emerson,” cried the girl, “don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house.”

It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. “How good every one is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me — came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire.”

“Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd.”