Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. ” “You like me?” “Yes. She fought him with tooth and nail. ” She picked at her sandwich idly. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. I'm sure she'll let me go, though. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. It was the last thing she felt like drinking.
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