Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. She forced herself not to think of John. Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. The boy was coming around. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. For you say that you swim. To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr. “Yes. " CHAPTER XIV.
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