He drove fast, but his thoughts ran faster. He had got to get back, have something to eat, and be at 16 Varley Street by half past two to fetch Kay. Round this definite purpose those racing thoughts of his whirled like the grains in a sandstorm—hard, pelting, stinging thoughts over which he had no control. He had come over here to find Miss Macintvre. He had found Kay. They had found each other. They loved each other. He had come over here to find an heiress for old Boss Macintyre. He had found Kay. He had lost Kay. She was Kay Macintyre. She was Boss Macintyre’s heiress. She was his employer’s niece. He had lost her. “No, I’m damned if I have! You’ve lost her. You’re bound to lose her. You can’t in common decency hold her to it. She won’t need holding. Boss Macintyre’s heiress. What’s it going to look like, you coming back and saying you’re engaged to her? Mud—that’s what your name will be—common, dirty mud. And no one in the world is going to believe that you got engaged to Kay when you didn’t know who she was.”
