"Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs. I'll be with you in a jiffy. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “Then you—you will?” A long pause. CHAPTER XVI. The theme was a masquerade.
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