“Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. 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. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. "I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack.
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