“Never mind, old chap,” he declared. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. We were alike.
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