"Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. Only an undermaid I was then. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. His glance came up again and met hers. . . It’s no good. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.
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