“Lady Ferringhall, sir. I will take you for thirty-five shillings a week. The Return. ‘You! Tell this fool who is the keeper here to come to me at once. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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