He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. “He naturally does not wish for connexions which are—I do not wish to hurt you feelings, Anna, but I must say it—not altogether desirable. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. I was his wife.
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