” “May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick. ‘Me, I am tout à fait stupide. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. . “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. I told you no good would come of it. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. I am no one, Gérard.
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