"The fact is, I have never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It is a noose, you know."-George Eliot. IT was the middle of July. The season had reached the climax which precedes a collapse. The heat was intense. The pace had been too great to last. The rich sane were already on their way to Scotch moor or Norwegian river; the rich insane and the poor remained, and people with daughters-assiduously entertaining the dwindling...