Wood. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. “Is it your maid?” he asked. The light would betray us. You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence. One must get them with exactly the same intensity. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances.
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