“Dinner is served, ma’am,” he announced to Mrs. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired.
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