” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. “You are making your dress?” “Such as it is. Here was a thundering blow. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. . Quite right. “It isn’t a joke,” she said.
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