Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him.
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