There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. 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. ‘It is the life I know. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. ' So I go to Patagonia. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. 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. ’ ‘Can’t say as I’m sorry to hear you say that, missie,’ confessed the sergeant, on a relieved note, as he locked the front door of the mansion and pocketed the key. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust.
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