" "It matters not what I think," replied Wild. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. ’ I said. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. And he had destroyed all this. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. We went our ways. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. He did not spend more time with her. She traced him by his scent. She did not think for one moment what interpretation he might put upon the word “lover.
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