“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“How mysterious you are!” she cried, striving to throw a careless jocularity into her words. “You speak like the villain, or rather the misunderstood hero, in a melodrama. My dear fellow! What is it all about? Can’t you see how I ’m simply dying to share your secret with you, whatever it is? We’re old friends. You ’ve made hopeless love to me a hundred times. I leave you engaged to be married to Evelyn Farquhar, one of the loveliest girls in all England, tearing around from house-party to house-party—and now, right in the midst of the hunting season, when you ought to be full of brandy-and-soda and tucked up sound asleep in your little bed at Parsley Croft, you bob up, looking like a half-baked sociologist, in the second cabin of my steamer! I won’t have it! What have you done? Have you done anything, old sport? Cosmo dear, out with it. You can trust me!” Her voice was tenderly coaxing.
The man drew back from her. Micky had turned cold and his heart suddenly felt like lead. Oh, Evelyn Farquhar!
“No—No, Lily! Don't ask me. I know it looks like a rum go. It is a rum ’un. You ’ll know soon enough, doubtless. Just71
