When she was quite sure that he was gone she took her sister’s note from the mantelpiece and slowly broke the seal. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. “Believe me, I know.
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