” A shade of concern darkened Carol Diedermayer’s face. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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