“I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. Thank him, not me, man. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. ” Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. ‘Don’t tell me. Certainly you have a reason. An Englishwoman.
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