Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover.
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