She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. Sir John waved her back. There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Ask your own conscience.
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