” She refused. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. It was hard to part with romance, but she had never thirsted so keenly to go on with her University work in her life as she did that day. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion.
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