"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. They clapped wildly afterward. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl.
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