Mr. I could not dream of loving you. Lady Lescelles, graceful, very fashionably but quietly dressed, leaned back and watched her with shrewd kindly eyes. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. In fact, I order you to do so. Mr. I would like to have to tell it so. She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better.
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