It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. She got hysterical. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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