“I will send you a copy,” Mr. They order me to get my man, and I get him. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered.
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