Mr. . The terror faded from her eyes. Very likely you will disapprove highly of what I have done—I wonder? You may, perhaps, think I have done it just in a fit of childish petulance because my father locked me in when I wanted to go to a ball of which he did not approve. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. "Mr. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Charley Pevenill was our host.
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