“It was perhaps my fault. I don’t defend it. You must come back. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. Then she realized that it was her business to let Manning talk and impose his own interpretations upon the situation so far as he was concerned. .
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