“I remember when you walked me home. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. You don’t understand the fix I am in. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. ” She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner.
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