" "I will go, if you will consent to meet me at midnight near the old house in Wych Street," replied Jack. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. "But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—" "Jonathan Wild," interposed Gay. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. " "Oh Heavens!" cried Jack, driven to his wits' end.
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