” “Did it come—in Paris?” “I do not know,” he answered. “The Widgetts,” she said. It is no good. ” “Oh, well!” he said, a little doubtfully, “it’s just a phase,” and bent down and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, with his heart beating and his nerves a-quiver. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. His name is John. Something in his tone pinched her heart. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now.
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