The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. She was unusually helpful at breakfast, and unselfish about the eggs: and then she went off to catch the train before her father’s. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully.
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