“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. Thank you for walking me home the other day. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. We know London, and you are a stranger here. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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