“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. . Pipes were lighted; and Mr. Greece was a different place. She was quite unconcerned. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. She's my mealticket.
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