was to be produced in the middle of Lent. But poor Philip was far from being himself. Still, he insisted on walking home with her to Bedford Gardens.
However, by the time they had reached the Strand, that romantic thoroughfare, the murder was pretty well out. It really came out at the moment they stood on the edge of the kerb opposite Charing Cross, waiting to commit their frail lives to the maëlstrom of mechanically propelled vehicles.
"Fact is, old girl,"—the heir to the barony gripped Mary firmly by the arm to see that she didn't step off the kerb too soon—"fact is, old girl, I want a pal. Will you be a pal to me?"
"Why, of course I will, Philip," said Mary, as they walked arm in arm into the jaws of a Barnes and Hammersmith 'bus.
"A pal for life, I mean, old girl."
By the time they had reached the opposite kerb, Mary was quivering. And the color in her face surmounted the natural pallor of her profession.
"Oh!—but, Philip—"
"You will, old girl!"
"I don't think that Granny—besides—!"
"Besides what, old girl?" The knitted chocolate waistcoat was being grievously assaulted.
"It wouldn't do—for you, I mean—although it is sweet of you to have asked me, Philip."
