“There can’t be a man,” cried Theophilus.
The warmth of his declaration brought into bloom a budding, satirical smile on the lips of the lady.
“I think you’re right, my dear Theophilus. It’s man in the abstract and not in the concrete.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said he. “It would give me great pain if Daphne threw herself away on a man unworthy of her.”
“I’m sure it would,” said Mona.
The days and weeks and months passed, and no further news came of Daphne. Whether she was lost in Paris, Seringapatam, or Java, no one knew. The bank manager responsible for the account into which the moneys due to her from the Wavering estate were paid, professed ignorance of her whereabouts. He could only give assurance that she was alive, on the evidence of cheques, cashed through foreign banks, comin
