Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’ The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. He reached over and took her hand. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump. I have weird skin. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. I know.
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