Sir John hesitated, and then continued. The letter will explain all. “I have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living,” she replied. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth.
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