“I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief.
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