“You certainly are. ” “Gwen said she was happy. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Lead the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady Trafford. ’ ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It had been a trying day. " The girl smiled and began to munch a sandwich. ‘I do not command your services, mon major. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed.
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