But here she met with a check. "Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. “Of course!” he said. The McCloskeys had only boys, two that were off in the Service and one that was full grown and had moved down South. You will survive, mark my words. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.
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