The next morning came a compact letter from her father. He glanced up at the coachman. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. Your life is like a funeral March. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. Every one has to make a deal with the world. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. \" Cathy beamed.
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