‘Let me go at once!’ repeated Dorothy, beginning to struggle again.
‘But I don’t particularly want to let you go,’ objected Mr Warburton.
‘Please don’t stroke my arm like that! I don’t like it!’
‘What a curious child you are. Why don’t you like it?’
‘I tell you I don’t like it!’
‘Now don’t go and turn round,’ said Mr Warburton mildly. ‘You don’t seem to realize how tactful it was on my part to approach you from behind your back. If you turn round you’ll see that I’m old enough to be your father, and hideously bald into the bargain. But if you’ll only keep still and not look at me you can imagine I’m Ivor Novello.’
Dorothy caught sight of the hand that was caressing her – a large, pink, very masculine hand, with thick fingers and a fleece of gold hairs upon the back. She turned very p
