She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. She dismissed the idea of doing so. "Mercy on us! what have I said!" cried the attendant, greatly alarmed by the agitation of her mistress; "do sit down, your ladyship, while I run for the ratifia and rosa solis. " "I dare say no such thing," interposed his better half, authoritatively; "remain where you are, Sir. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. ” “I would forgive you a great deal more,” he answered readily, “for the sake of an evening like this. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. "Women are always balling up and muddling clean cases. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. Wood, in equal trepidation.
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