She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. “Show me around you house, John. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath.
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