You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. And, after all, a fine clear sky of bright colors is the signal to come out of hiding and rejoice and go on with life. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy. "Mistress!" said the apprentice, making a final appeal to Mrs.
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