There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. . The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as nothing is to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. And lunged once more. As time wore on, and they did not return, Mr. I love your very breath.
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