She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. CHAPTER I. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. “The most important is that I have a new admirer. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. “Yes. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper.
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