They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. Do not remain with me.
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