She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. "Silence!" returned Jackson, in a deep whisper; "and don't muddle your brains with any more of that Pharaoh. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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