He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. She isn't used to cities. I consented. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.
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