He was different from her own lover; no better, of course, but he had lived another life, and could tell her many things.
And Woodell, who expected to marry her, glowered a little.

She did not care for that.

Grant Harlson had not noticed it.
But neither quoits nor Jenny Bierce sufficed at all times for forgetfulness.

Harlson was in the grasp of that enemy--or friend--who gives vast problems, and with them no solution.

He could not rest.