He sent me home. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. ” “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” He accused. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. . “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. It’s not fair to you.
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