At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. . He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. . . “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. “Promise. Here were the passionate lovers! What their past had been he neither cared nor craved to know. 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. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur.
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