Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. “The Widgetts,” she said. And Charcam, fearful of another charge in his master's present uncertain mood, disappeared. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay. But for him she might have been alive and happy. It drives one mad at times.
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