” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. ’ ‘So I heard. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. "I was only just in time. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. ’ ‘I imagine it must be a relief to you, after so lucky an escape. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. CHAPTER XII. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. "Is it poison?" she asked. .
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