The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. The close-fitting round gown, if a little oldfashioned with its very narrow waist and wide skirts, was becoming on a full figure, and the low décolletage, unencumbered by any form of covering, exposed a good deal of bosom. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it. Or perhaps my father once.
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