“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked.
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