Wild's. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. “Steady on!” he cried. Charity for the ragtag and the bobtail of the Seven Seas, and none for his own flesh and blood. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. MANNING,” she had begun. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces.
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