But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. Amongst others, Mr.
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