To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. It was among artistic people. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. .
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