” Ennison had things to say, but he looked at her and held his tongue. She is no longer mine; she is yours. I think he got sick of us and he disappeared not one week later. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. . But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. I’m sorry. ” “But why——” Sir John stopped short. ’ ‘Ah yes.
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