His literary instincts began to stir. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. She confronted him with his own double-standard. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again. A doubt as to your dinner to-morrow would make you miserable to-night. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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