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’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. ” He stared in amazement at this new aspect of the situation. ” “I am really curious,” she persisted. The general propositions of Socialism, for example, struck her as admirable, but she certainly did not extend her admiration to any of its exponents.
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