In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The Dawn Pearl. "You are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. 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. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely.
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