Paris, 18. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. In the first place, it will be damnably dull.
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