It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. ’ ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. He laughed. Sheppard, struggling to get free. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet. And go quickly that I may finish to search. I asked her to marry me, and she consented. Ed. “No, you didn’t.
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