"I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. The door opened. Wood, at the top of her voice. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. She won’t be a problem from now on. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus.
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