She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Marriage!—and no woman by to tell the child what it was! The shocks and disillusions she would have to meet unsuspectingly—and bitterly. 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. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. John Sheppard. ’ ‘That wasn’t my fault.
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