"That gown is getting shabby. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. "What's the matter?" he cried. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. Lucy wore it every day from then on. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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