So that, as he and Daphne sped along the autumn lanes, he talked about anything and everything.

He expressed, for instance, his friendly admiration for Elsie French.
"She's just the wife for old Herbert--and, by George, she's in love with him!" "A great deal too much in love with him!" said Daphne, sharply.

The day was chilly, with a strong east wind blowing, and Daphne's small figure and face were enveloped in a marvellous wrap, compounded in equal proportions of Russian sables and white cloth.

It had not long arrived from Woerth, and Roger had allowed himself some jibes as to its probable cost.

Daphne's "simplicity," the pose of her girlhood, was in fact breaking down in all directions.