Her head rose. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips.
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