"I wouldn't be a little
milliner at your mercy for all I could see."
Traill snorted contemptuously. "She's not a little milliner," he
said, cutting each word clean with irony. "Neither in your sense,
nor in reality. Fortune has cursed her with being a lady and withheld
the necessary increment that would make such things obvious to you.
Good night."
He stood away, and told the chauffeur the address in Sloane Street.
They did not look at each other again, and the little vehicle pulled
away from the kerbstone without the final nod of the head or shaking
of the hand which usually terminated their meetings.
The last sight she had of him, was as he stood looking down Waterloo
Place, his eyes picking out the people one by one, as the miner sifts
the dross from the dust of gold. Then she leant back in the cab and
a low, sententious laugh lazily parted her lips.
For a moment, Traill stood there; but Sally was out of sight. It
crossed his mind to run down into Pall Mall--coatless, hatless, as
he was--in the hope of finding her; but an inner consciousness
convinced him that she would return, and he walked back into the house,
upstairs to his room to wait for her.
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