“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. ’ She was about to develop this theme, when Jack’s gaze became fixed, and his expression changed.
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