And now, a fair exchange, Sir. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. “The thing I feel most disposed to say, Miss Stanley,” he began at last, “is that this is very sudden. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. He went on. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. Rummage, my boy, do. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. “It’s very late.
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