The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. She wanted to be on with the show. The rest of his attire was nondescript. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. Well, I'll take myself off.
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