ever before. It was the old, old story, to his mind: nothing succeeds with women like just too little deference. Fenton would lounge along by Nora's side, with his hands in his pockets, a cigar in his mouth, his shoulders raised to his ears, and a pair of tattered slippers on his absurdly diminutive feet. Not only had Nora forgiven him this last breach of decency, but she had forthwith begun to work him a new pair of slippers. "What on earth," thought Roger, "do they find to talk about?" Their conversation, meanwhile, ran in some such strain as this.
"My dear Nora," said the young man, "what on earth, week in and week out, do you and Mr. Lawrence find to talk about?"
"A great many things, George. We have lived long enough together to have a great many subjects of conversation."
"It was a most extraordinary thing, his adopting you, if you don't mind my saying so. Imagine my adopting a little girl."
"You and Roger are very different men."
"We certainly are. What in the world did he expect to do with you?"
"Very much what he has done, I suppose. He has educated me, he has made me what I am."
"You're a very nice little person; but, upon my word, I don't see that he 's to thank for it. A lovely girl can be neither made nor marred."
"Possibly! But I give you notice that I am not a lovely girl. I have it in me to be, under provocation, anything but a lovely girl. I owe everything to Roger.
