and not only a novelist but a self-plagiarist, than which there is no more despicable creature. I warn you, Bisham, that if you publish another of these so-called burlesque novels of yours, I shall be forced to look upon you as a sort of Thomas Hardy, rooted eternally in Wessex, or a kind of Henry James, for ever occupied with the psychology of the Continental American. I don't say that I will leave you, Bisham, for I should have nowhere to go except my father's house; but I'll be shot if I shall love you any longer, and I shall flirt like the devil with other men, and particularly with Captain Yarborough." She turned her back on him again and began to sweep down the hall.
He threw the door wide. "Come in," he said. "Rather than that, I'll give the Archdeacon away."
She halted as if she had been shot,
