It’s a mismatch. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Instead, you are willing to go to a place like that where you ought not to be allowed to think of showing yourself. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own.
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