His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. “Quite on my own,” she said. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face.
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