"Now—begin. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. “Just hope that the ground doesn’t shift and unearth them. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature.
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