" Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. You simply can’t. Yon must be mine to-night. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement. She tried not to blush. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance.
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