“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. She had lost it. I have a different game to play; and it'll be your own fault, if you don't come off the winner.
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