Like carpenter, like chips. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. I have been stupid and foolish.
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