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He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. McClintock was amused. " "There are bad stories, then, just as there are bad people?" "Yes. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. ” “Did you tell him of the registry office?” “No—o—certainly not so emphatically as I did about the play. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire.
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