Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. John looked at his feet bashfully. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. It was among artistic people. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared.
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