Arnold Jacks, an intimate friend of Romaine; but he declared that he
did not start the story, and was surprised to find it known. Miss
Derwent herself? No, my dear cynical mamma! She isn't that sort. She
likes me as much as I like her, I think, but in all our talk not a
word from her about the great topic of curiosity. It is just
possible, I fear, that she means to marry Mr. Arnold Jacks, who, by
the bye, is a son of a Member of Parliament, and rather an
interesting man, but, I am quite sure, not the man for _her_. If she
will come down into Hampshire with me may I bring her? It would so
rejoice your dear soul to be assured that I have made such a friend,
after what you are pleased to call my riff-raff foreign intimacies."
A few words more of affectionate banter, and she signed herself
"Helen M. Borisoff."
As she was addressing the envelope, the sound of a book thrown on to
the table just in front of her caused her to look up, and she saw
Irene Derwent.
"What's the matter? Why are you damaging the ship's literature?" she
asked gaily.
"No, I can't stand that!" exclaimed Irene. "It's too imbecile. It
really is what our slangy friend calls 'rot,' and very dry rot. Have
you read the thing?"
Mrs. Borisoff looked at the title, and answered with a headshake.
"Imagine! An awful apparatus of mystery; blood-curdling hints about
the hero, whose prospects in life are supposed to be utterly
blighted.
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