There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. They were horrible people. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend.
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