"It is droll," he said. We men are like children. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl.
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