’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know. It was a clear, lovely, October morning.
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