"Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?—silence gives consent, eh?" Mrs. 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. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs.
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