’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. " And she flung herself between them. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. I wonder. Lucy saw that perhaps she had been attracted to Martin all along. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. Miss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr.
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