‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. “I will be off,” she declared. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. Ramage—about the forty pounds. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. ’ ‘But you must,’ Gerald said, quite as if he meant it.
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