of a blurred office window-pane at a grey London sky; then she broke away. "I really don't know what I want. I think," she honestly admitted, "I just want kindness."
Mrs. Gracedew's expression might have hinted—but not for too long—that Bedford Row was an odd place to apply for it; she appeared for an instant to make the revolving office-chair creak. "What do you mean by kindness?"
Cora was a model client—she perfectly knew. "I mean help."
Mrs. Gracedew closed an inkstand with a clap and locked a couple of drawers. "What do you mean by help?"
The client's inevitable answer seemed to perch on the girl's lips: "A thousand pounds." But it came out in another, in a much more charming form. "I mean that I love him."
The family solicitor got up: it was a high figure. "And does he love you?"
Cora hesitated. "Ask him."
Mrs. Gracedew weighed the necessity. "Where is he?"
"Waiting." And the girl's glance, removed from her companion and wandering aloft and through space, gave the scale of his patience.
Her adviser, however, required the detail. "But where?"
