“You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn’t have any of it. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. ‘Do not beg my pardon. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. I guess they were bad all the time. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. “—but this cannot be. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. I want you to be my lover.
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