There were the burnt papers still in the grate. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. “It was the night you left Paris. There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.
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