“More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. He declined supper, but took wine. “Are you free tomorrow? Should I call?” He asked. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. But she made no answer. I may as well think.
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