Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. “To think that you were going to do it—and never said a word! You are a little thin, but except for that you look—you look better than ever. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect.
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