They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. At last she was roused. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. In the first place, Mrs. All right, I’m coming. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. ‘I have only borrowed it. You are not my husband. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally.
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