“How will you live?” she appealed. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. ‘Oh, you are making a game with me. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He was an imaginative young man. Eh bien, you have now the opportunity. By a sort of instinct.
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