Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. This Joan would hold them for a little. It was his heart. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin. Master, your humble servant. He looked at his friend. Yet he stays.
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