It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. ‘You speak as if you expected to meet her again, Gerald. She had discussed the general question of supplies with the helpful landlady. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. Yet I shall think of you to-day. One cannot trust any man at all. What had she to do with such as these? She had hard work to keep a smiling face, as Mrs. 150 “Homely. Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. Only you good ones— shirk. Now let us forget it. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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