She tried to be casual. Every one of those four stories would be accepted. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. ” 227 “Your family?” “She was my first wife, and because she turned me, she was like a mother to me. I can't spare you at present. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. .
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