Wood, in a taunting tone. ‘Me, I have a name. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. She's not for pleasure, but for work. His technique had gained much subtlety over the years. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. "Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short. It has. "Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily.
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