No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. “Please call me Carol. ‘Do not speak of him. "Not the sort of stories young ladies should read. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. Only I do not care to write about anything else. Now lend me your own hand. Of course, this does not apply to uninteresting old maids," Prudence modified with a dry little smile. "This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself.
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