" "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. ’ He heard Roding snort, and suppressed a grin as he bowed, taking the trouble to salute Madame’s hand and cast her a provocative look as he did so. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. With this view, he suffered him to pass on. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. He agreed it was disgraceful. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. She could think of nothing more to say.
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