Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. The first of these, whom he addressed as Mr. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. Be so good as to come this way. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return. “It was inevitable,” he declared. .
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