Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. My lads," he continued, addressing the partners; "when you've finished this job give that fellow a fresh set of darbies. ” “It was a mistake,” she faltered. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. I don’t care. .
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