All the while we were together d**k never went with a woman. I sometimes wondered whether he wasn't completely innocent. Why didn't I ask him? Because I never did ask him anything about himself. But late one night he took out his pocket-book and a photograph dropped out of it. I picked it up and glanced at it before I gave it to him. It was of a woman. Not quite young. Dark, handsome, wild-looking, but so full in every line of a kind of haggard pride that even if d**k had not stretched out so quickly I wouldn't have looked longer.
"Out of my sight, you little perfumed fox-terrier of a Frenchman," said she.
(In my very worst moments my nose reminds me of a fox-terrier's.)
"That is my Mother," said d**k, putting up the pocket-book.
But if he had not been d**k I should have been tempted to cross ……
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