His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. And it’s no use thinking he’d stop her. He cocked an eyebrow.
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