"You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Well, let's beat it to the hotel. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. " "Jack, my love," cried Mrs. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. . .
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