The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. Her desires were not for riches. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman.
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