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’ ‘I do. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction.
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