Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. “They are coming past our table. They could no longer stay in one place. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. I think that nearly every manager in London has made me an offer. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you. . ’ Then all at once remembrance made her smile.
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