E. The Old Mint. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. One cannot expect that soldiers can be sympathique to one they believe may be a French spy. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. We fixed that. She stepped backwards. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. ” “And what are you doing here?” the lady asked. He accepted the glass of wine, and bowed.
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