’ Triumph soared in Gerald’s chest. “Oh, you know,” she said. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. “It’s not for us to supplicate any more. A little love from him would be enough. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She has already forgotten it. She dare not risk it. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit.
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