You get the idea. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. And when they got to Covent Garden Ramage secured one of the little upper boxes, and they came into it as the overture began. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. ‘—and what do I do? Well, we know what I do.
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