The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. But he was not a father one could make much of. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “Cheer up, Annabel.
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