“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "I am only fit for such as him. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. “Dear John,” she whispered. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. “I do. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Only her babe died.
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