It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. “I believe so. But I will not believe you. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. Until that was done a certain experience of life assured him that a girl is a locked coldness against a man’s approach. The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. Mr.
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