” She paused, and he waited for her to speak. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. “But that’s not all. "He is all alone. ‘Can’t see a thing. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things.
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