" After making several ineffectual attempts to keep himself above water, Sir Rowland sunk, and his groans, which had become gradually fainter and fainter, were heard no more. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. I don't think. “They all catch on,” she said. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. I shall count it a privilege.
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