"To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic. ” “And what about this man—Mr. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. Lost me place, that’s all. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good.
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