In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. “What do you want to go out here for, Lucy?” He 217 asked. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity.
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