"What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. “Why not? It might amuse me. Stanley,’ I said. Diable. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. But you want one quality, without which all others are valueless. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. CHAPTER I. McClintock. I’ve had a headache all day.
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