Earles closed the piano with a little bang. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. ” “You are separated from your wife?” “Yes, but do you know how?” “Not exactly. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. .
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