He—wanted to marry me. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. “Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna. “There is something which I must say to you. That is where I first knew him.
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