‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. "Promise me that. I mean my cut-offs and boots. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. The two young fools laughed until they cried. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. Now, no more questions, or I shall be forced to leave the room. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value.
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