The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. "You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. But this was a vicomte’s sister. He seemed to deliberate. Wood could give him no further information respecting Sir Rowland Trenchard than what he had obtained from Kneebone; but begged him to defer the further consideration of the line of conduct he meant to pursue until the morrow, when he hoped to have a plan to lay before him, of which he would approve.
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