A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. “Ask me nothing. ’ ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. He turned, expecting to see his wife. “Women know these things by instinct,” she answered. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. “No!” she exclaimed.
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