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“What do you mean?” she asked. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at fiery speed, for the metropolis. But I must summon my janizaries. Nice lady. 1.
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