“What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. I had a hunch. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. 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. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed.
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