her money, as she thought it--our money
as I knew it to be--as she saw fit. Having learned and relearned my
lesson--namely, that I lacked the courage to tell her the truth I had
so often declared must be told, having shifted the responsibility to
Hephzy's shoulders, having admitted and proclaimed myself, in that
respect at least, a yellow dog, I proceeded to take life as I found it,
as yellow dogs are supposed to do.

And, having thus weakly rid myself of care and responsibility, I began
to enjoy that life. To enjoy the freedom of it, and the novelty of
the surroundings, and the friendship of the good people who were our
neighbors. Yes, and to enjoy the home life, the afternoons on the tennis
court or the golf course, the evenings in the drawing-room, the "teas"
on the lawn--either our lawn or someone else's--the chats together
across the dinner-table; to enjoy it all; and, more astonishing still,
to accept the companionship of the young person who was responsible for
our living in that way as a regular and understood part of that life.

Not that I understood the young person herself; no Bayport quahaug, who
had shunned female companionship as I had for so long, could be expected
to understand the whims and changing moods of a girl like Frances
Morley. At times she charmed and attracted me, at others she tormented
and irritated me. She argued with me one moment and disagreed the next.
She laughed at Hephzy's and my American accent and idioms, but when
Bayliss, Junior, or one of the curates ventured to criticize an
"Americanism" she was quite as likely to declare that she thought it
"jolly" and "so expressive." Against my will I was obliged to join in
conversations, to take sides in arguments, to be present when callers
came, to make calls. I, who had avoided the society of young people
because, being no longer young, I felt out of place among them, was now
dragged into such society every day and almost every evening. I did
not want to be, but Little Frank seemed to find mischievous pleasure in
keeping me there.

"It is good for you," she said, on one occasion, when I had sneaked
off to my room and the company of the "British Poets." "Auntie says you
started on your travels in order to find something new to write about.
You'll never find it in those musty books; every poem in them is at
least seventy years old. If you are going to write of England and my
people you must know something about those that are alive."

"B