“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. And then you go—and half throttle me. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. Well, let him be honest. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly. The signal of distress was evidently understood.
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