“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. I've got an address here. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right. He would always be her friend, too.
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