She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ’ The lady opened her eyes very wide indeed. ” “I wanted to, John. . There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest.
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