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‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude.
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