She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. A species of vertigo seized him. Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. “You can say what you have to say before Mr. C below. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. No gentleman was ever called Thames, and Darrell is a gentleman, unless the whole story of his being found in the river is a fabrication!" "My dear, you forget—" "No, Mr. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. “But I must, I will,” he answered fiercely. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel.
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