"I'd lay down my life for yours. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. And always they were well satisfied. "I am coming to the point, Joan.
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