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"I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. Softly she rose to her feet. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife.
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