She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. “They say there are spots on the sun. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea.
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