Sydney Courtlaw—Mr. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. ’ Gerald did not speak, but there was a look in his face that made Melusine glad she had at last had the courage to confide in him. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. No further responsibility whatever. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. .
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