There was a young lad ahead of her. Liberates the girl from parental control. Good riddance to bad rubbish. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account.
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