She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. "You," answered Jack, abruptly. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. Melusine ran to catch at his arm. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend.
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