" "Murdered!" ejaculated Winifred. ’ ‘No, you are a gentleman,’ she agreed. 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. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. “We’re going to be found out someday. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Our ideal had fallen.
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