" "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. I am afraid, Anna, just a little afraid, that in Paris I and my friends here might seem a trifle advanced. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. “And children must we women bear— “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain.
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