The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. She cried out his name in ecstasy. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. “Lucy, that’s horrible. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment. He is here by your side. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said.
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