He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. I questioned him too closely about his possessions, and remarked upon the fact that he was a most inexpert driver, although Meysey Hill had a great reputation as a motorist. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Apparently he thought it very much worth while. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug.
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