Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. “I detest amateurs.
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