“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well.
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