“Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. “I love you, Ann Veronica. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. It’s time she knew. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. I tried it myself, Sir.
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