From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. All her life Martha had been there. She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It’s me! You know—Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver might be. As he turned the handle, it moved, and the door was taken from his hand and pulled outward by the young footman. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica.
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