‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Surely he was imagining this picture. "By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot. Mr. Who are they?" Mr.
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