"This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear," said the carpenter. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. ” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. F. Not fit to be dust on your boots.
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