“MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. ’ ‘That is what you think? Eh bien. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand. I say again, grace à vous. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. Forgive me?” She pleaded. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. Just let him down easy, Lucy. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide.
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