The noose was at its throat when I called for help. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. . . And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. Almost light-heartedly. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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