‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. As this seemed insufficient, after a lapse of five minutes, he added another hundred weight. ” “What!” he asked; “not a kiss?” She affected not to hear. Remember that. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee.
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