"Couldn't you speak to him?" "What?—and be insulted for my trouble? No, thank you!" "That is it. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. But seriously ——” “Well seriously?” “Isn’t it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you. "You'll never return. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth.
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