” “The real, identical other,” said Capes, and took and bit the tip of her little finger. I have very few friends in Paris. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card.
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