He had the air of a man who has said too much. 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. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. She knew the truth of it all right. “All right so far,” she said to herself. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
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