“Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. So this was what it was all about. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Earles drew out his cheque book. Love anywhere. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone.
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