of what was herself and which domiciled somewhere within that pretty head of hers.

“Yes,” she was saying. “They have never to worry, as long as they live, over mere bread and butter. Dick is most generous, and, rather immoral, in his encouragement of idleness on the part of men like them. It’s a funny place, as you’ll find out until you come to understand us. They� they are appurtenances, and — and hereditaments, and such things. They will be with us always until we bury them or they bury us. Once in a while one or another of them drifts away — for a time. Like the cat, you know. Then it costs Dick real money to get them back. Terrence, there — Terrence McFane — he’s an epicurean anarchist, if you know what that means. He wouldn’t kill a flea.