” Chapter XIX “THIS IS NOT THE END” “I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. Such pretty manners, she thought. “But, you see, appearances are very much against me. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts.
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