An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. How can you say such things? You’re too young to be married, and realize this: you’re not ready. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. I will neither stir hand nor foot for you more.
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