She still had her letter of credit. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Now I do. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. “Well,” she admitted. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully.
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