But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Nigel Ennison was he. I’ve no name for it yet. ” “But waive that point. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept. “There is some one else whom I care for!” He laughed hardly. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Alors, how did you get in?’ ‘Oh, we broke in,’ Gerald told her cheerfully.
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