He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover.
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