I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. She sat perfectly still, however. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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