‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. Hopefully. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. “Number 13, please, cabman. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously. I will arise myself. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. He looked at her guiltily. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. CHAPTER XV.
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