’ ‘Yes, Hilary, do stop hustling the girl,’ put in Miss Froxfield, much to Melusine’s relief and approval. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. Dolby was portly and handsome. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. As I shall take and hold. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet.
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