But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. "You have lived over here?"—astonished.
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