“Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. ” “What else,” Lady Lescelles murmured, “are men for?” Anna laughed. I've combed HongKong. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character.
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