"Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible.
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