She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. That’s the fact of the matter. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. That is the dreadful truth. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said.
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