To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Wasn’t it—a little bit of a scene?” “Oh! let me see. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. No, don’t let me call myself that. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her.
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