"Mother!" cried Jack, springing towards her. . I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. ‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. .
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