Lord, I am sixty. I was rude and stupid. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. “I am not sure,” Anna answered.
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