" "When will you want me?"—with pitiful eagerness. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. "A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Not for me. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself.
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