” So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. Bullding repeated, rather struck with the phrase. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Its shouting now did in some occult manner convey a protest that Mr. Lassitude?” “I suppose so.
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