“I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. Good riddance. ’ ‘Tchah!’ He glared at her. "I could not make him understand. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. “Delicious!” she murmured. She rang again with the same result.
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