“It isn’t a joke,” she said. . I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. ” Mrs. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. She opened it and imbibed. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. See? You marry me. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask.
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