CHAPTER I. A lesson learned. . I’ve got a streak of male. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir," cried Mrs. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. . She was like an angel with one wing. .
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