“You poor little girl!” he cried. ’ Gerald laughed. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. You cannot—shall not retreat. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall.
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