She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. MANNING,—I find it very difficult to answer your letter. “It is in your hands from now on, Shar. .
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