Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. ‘Odd sort of a nun. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. ’ ‘Only in hot blood, eh?’ grinned Gerald. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time.
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