“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. “Now, there, there. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. ” Mr. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. “Is it your maid?” he asked.
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