I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope.
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