\" She looked at Mike. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. Here we are. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.
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