The slow, scornful syllables jarred the perfumed waves and echoed hollowly in the still corners.
She arose, unlocked a secretary at the back of the room, and took out a worn portfolio—also locked. Selecting from the contents several large sheets of paper, she laid them in order upon the table, and drew from an inner pocket a gold pen in a shabby handle. With it she had written her first book. For six years she had used no other. Before dipping it into the ink, she kissed it.
“I have come back to you!” she said.
CHAPTER III.
With the first heavy snows of December a little daughter was given to Agnes Ashe.
On New Year’s Day her husband proposed to read aloud to her a book “some of the Club fellows were talking about last night.” The pale face flushed nervously when he undid the wrapping paper.
It was one of the “happenings” we persist in classing among singular coincidences, although they are of daily occurrence, that he should have selected that particular novel for their entertainment on the holiday he proposed to devote entirely to his convalescent wife.
“The Story of Walter King” had not been sent, as one might suppose would have been natural, to Mr. Rowland of Boston.