Her mention of her father's home had been purely rhetorical. She took the sofa and lit a cigarette.
Dunkle returned with the typescript of "Trixie." He sat down and began to read from it. This man was fighting for his life's happiness, you understand, and he was on his mettle. He adopted an exaggerated style of delivery which made what the good Archdeacon had written sound inimitably droll. Chloë, who wished for nothing so much as to be convinced, quickly began to laugh, and soon was helpless. Dunkle, his apprehensions all yed, now proceeded to find himself amusing. He, too, began to laugh. Presently it became impossible for him to continue. He abandoned his relieved soul to an ecstasy of merriment. The two young people rolled about, gasping and holding their sides. If the Archdeacon could have
