With a half-laugh, half-sob, Athalia slid her arms round his neck.
“Yes, I can, my darling. You see, you’re both called Punch.”
ANN
ANN
Lady Ann Minter alighted thankfully.
After the burden and heat of the third-class carriage the evening air of Suet was like a drink of water—out of a dirty mug. Still, it was water: and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar’s finger made a desirable continent for a certain rich man.
Her husband took her arm and shepherded her out of the press.
“See now, kid,” he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, “you jus’ stay ’ere an’ watch out for me. I’m off to find your trunk.”
“All right, Bob,” said Lady Ann Minter.
Alone for the first time since her marriage, she strove to marshal her thoughts. These, however, were mutinous. The flight of opportunity, the welter of noise and movement on the fringe of which she stood undermined her authority. It was vital that she should think quickly and clearly, that she should make up her mind. Everything was depending upon immediate decision. But the very premises were denied her. She was wild to face the facts: but the facts danced and flickered and would not be faced.