She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.
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