Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. “Have you told anybody else?” Lucy asked. “I just wanted you to see that the time will come when I must leave you, and the time is coming soon. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. “Lucy! You found me! I was just about to sleep some of those rum and Cokes off like the pig I am. He seemed too noisy. " "You cannot help yourself, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, contemptuously.
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