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Chapter I. I Go to Styles

           He’sabadlot.Youcansaywhatyouliketome,butrememberwhatI’vetoldyou.He’sabadlot!’”

           “Whatdidshesay?”

           MissHowardmadeanextremelyexpressivegrimace.

           “‘DarlingAlfred’—‘dearestAlfred’—‘wickedcalumnies’—‘wickedlies’—‘wickedwoman’—toaccuseher‘dearhusband!’ThesoonerIleftherhousethebetter.SoI’moff.”

           “Butnotnow?”

           “Thisminute!”

           Foramomentwesatandstaredather.FinallyJohnCavendish,findinghispersuasionsofnoavail,wentofftolookupthetrains.Hiswifefollowedhim,murmuringsomethingaboutpersuadingMrs.Inglethorptothinkbetterofit.

           Asshelefttheroom,MissHoward’sfacechanged.Sheleanttowardsmeeagerly.

           “Mr.Hastings,you’rehonest.Icantrustyou?”

           Iwasalittlestartled.Shelaidherhandonmyarm,andsankhervoicetoawhisper.

           “Lookafterher,Mr.Hastings.MypoorEmily.They’realotofsharks—allofthem.Oh,IknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.Thereisn’toneofthemthat’snothardupandtryingtogetmoneyoutofher.I’veprotectedherasmuchasIcould.NowI’moutoftheway,they’llimposeuponher.”

           “Ofcourse,MissHoward,”Isaid,“I’lldoeverythingIcan,butI’msureyou’reexcitedandoverwrought.”

           Sheinterruptedmebyslowlyshakingherforefinger.

           “Youngman,trustme.I’velivedintheworldratherlongerthanyouhave.AllIaskyouistokeepyoureyesopen.You’llseewhatImean.

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