“Bother it all!” she swore. Oh God! my limbs fail me. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. . Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be lost. Mrs.
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