Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me.
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