“There, there, now. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. I’ll be waiting for you outside. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. Everything is being done that can be. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity.
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