The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “You had only to ask——” “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. ” “I couldn’t do that,” said Ann Veronica, sharply.
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