’ The expression on Emile Gosse’s face was vicious under the smile. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. “There is a secret. . . And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party.
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