She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. These starlings varied in width, according to the bulk of the pier they surrounded. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. He was an odd one, especially for a young man. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. “You see, daddy, I don’t think it IS preposterous. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge.
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