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The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. We fixed that. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. I haven’t, anyhow. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney.
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