Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. She sings twice a week at the ‘Ambassador’s’ and the ‘Casino Mavise’——” Sir John held up his hand. Nothing else matters. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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