Jack had been quite honest with the woman he loved. He had told her of
his talk with Radmore, of Radmore's immediate, generous response, and the
cheque he had given which he, Jack, handed to her as a free gift.
She had gone up to London fully intending to see the Pipers after she had
cashed the cheque. But when it came to the point she had shirked the
second half of her programme, telling herself, with perhaps a certain
amount of truth, that by waiting till the last day of grace allowed her
by that terrible old-clothes woman she would get better terms. Perhaps
then they would be satisfied with three hundred pounds, or even less,
and acting on that hope, she had expended a portion of the money in
purchasing a few of the pretty dress etceteras which are so costly
nowadays.
Apart from the time occupied by those pleasant purchases, she had spent
every waking minute of the day with Harold Tremaine, lunching and dining
at the big smart restaurants which both her soul and her body loved,
going to the play, and listening in between to the most delightful
love-making....
Small wonder that during that long, dull Sunday, spent perforce in her
bedroom, Enid Crofton's mind often took refuge in the thought of the only
man now in her life with whom all her memories and all her relations had
been, and were, absolutely satisfactory.
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