They walked back to 118 hand in hand. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Laughed at me, then.
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