He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. . . "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. He died in the war. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn.
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