" "Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed. I know now that I was mistaken. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked.
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