” “But didn’t Alice want to marry Doctor Ralph?” “Oh, ssh, Vee!” said her mother, with an evasion as patent as an advertisement board. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. She still kicked herself for it. She didn’t choose her man. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. She had been quite convinced that an engagement with him and at last a marriage had exactly that quality of compromise which distinguishes the ways of the wise. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief.
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