There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Sheppard. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “It’s a great deal for a young lady who’s alone in the world, as I suppose you are at present, to have a respectable home, and I do not think in such a case that private apartments are at all desirable. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme.
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