” Part 4 They sat with tea and strawberries and cream before them at a little table in front of the pavilion in Regent’s Park. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. “It’s a new phase in the life history,” he remarked. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least.
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