‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be Capes’ friend. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her.
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