The next morning came a compact letter from her father. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. ’ While he trod a deliberate path through the pink saloon towards the door, Gerald encouraged a flow of harmless chatter about the people Madame had met and the parties she had attended. His eyes never left her face. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand.
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