The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. “I’d have to sneak out after everyone was asleep. With your pencil you see into the hearts of all; and without your pencil you are dumb and blind. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. F.
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