She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “You are positively eloquent to-night—both of you,” she declared. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in the rocks. ‘I feared as much. .
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