" "I do not doubt it," retorted Winifred, scornfully; "because I attach credit neither to one nor the other. I’m a female thing at bottom. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. Gold-handled, too.
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