Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. Save my seat. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. “It’s like the Picture and the Bust.
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