“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. From what do you wish to be rescued?’ The girl fluttered her eyelashes, sighed dramatically and spread her hands. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively.
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