” He said cruelly as she gazed at him in fear. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best.
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