Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. She isn't used to cities. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. "But I like Bobby Burns best. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy.
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