He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. As for me, I look twice at it. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. “This is what comes of being a young woman up to date. I want him as my friend.
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