That dress is thirty years old, if a day. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. The dress of this person was excessively showy, and consisted of a scarlet riding-habit, lined and faced with blue, and bedizened with broad gold lace, a green silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and decorated with a deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the same gaudy style. "Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. "I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. But it is my fault.
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