Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. She seemed honestly glad to see him. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. ” She said. They sold him the whisky.
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