A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. It brought no coconut. The ring's yours, and you're mine. I say again, grace à vous. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. You can pay me when we return. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. CHAPTER X. “He is a sad blunderer.
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