“Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. She stared at his pleading face. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer.
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