‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. ’ Gerald tutted. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. She pushed him gently on the chest. Her name was Rhea. ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions.
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