Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand. To-night we leave for Marseilles. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected.
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