Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. He was human. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. “Only so many men neglect their duties. ” The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners of her mouth —humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it. But from the rest—you saved me. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles.
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