She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. “Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance.
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