John said nothing. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back. But let that verse tell my secret. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. The moral right of the author has been asserted. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father.
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