Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. “Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. 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. Wood the carpenter. .
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