white gloves behind him, a grip broken at times for controlling pats at the black-bordered tie and the back of that spacious head, and by a slight but increasing disposition to cough, that Coote did not approve!
To Kipps Helen had once supplied a delicately beautiful dream, a thing of romance and unsubstantial mystery. But this was her final materialisation, and the last thin wreath of glamour about her was dispelled. In some way (he had forgotten how and it was perfectly incomprehensible) he was bound to this dark, solid and determined young person whose shadow and suggestion he had once loved. He had to go through with the thing as a gentleman should. Still
And when he was sacrificing Ann!
He wouldn't stand this sort of thing, whatever else he stood.… Should he say something about her dress to her—to-morrow?
He could put his foot down firmly. He could say, "Look 'ere. I don't care. I ain't going to stand it. See?"
She'd say something unexpected, of course. She always did say something unexpected.
Suppose for once he overrode what she said? Simply repeated his point?
He found these thoughts battling with certain conversational aggressions from Mrs. Wace, and then Revel arrived and took the centre of the stage.
The author of that brilliant romance, "Red Hearts a-Beating," was a less imposing man than Kipps had
