‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. "You see?" Ruth said. ’ Disappointment flooded her. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. ‘Gammon. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once.
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