But his words were borne away by the driving wind. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. " "It matters not what I think," replied Wild. " Ah Cum shrugged. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. But they’ve just been to see General Charvill. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I'll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. ” He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. .
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