Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. “Round midnight, I think. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. " "Very well, sir. ” He drew a little nearer to her. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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