He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp. So, then, when McClintock offered the coveted haven, Spurlock became afire to dramatize the idea. Hartford had a very respectable sound. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. Mr.
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