" "Thames Ditton—is that your name?" "No," replied the boy, impatiently; "Darrell—Thames Darrell. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Thames Darrell is—" "My husband nicknames him Thames," interrupted Mrs. " "I'll forgive you all the harm you do me," rejoined the Amazon. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. "Mine died while I was over here. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice.
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