Something in his tone pinched her heart. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. She felt she was bound in honor to tell the whole affair to Manning sooner or later. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. He would give The Tigress a triple coat of paint, and take these two on a long cruise, wherever they wanted to go—Roundhead and Seraph, the blunderbus and the flaming angel. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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