Hill, Meysey Hill. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. 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. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight.
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