“What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. She was only trying to distract you so that she might escape. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. "Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. Sheppard, hastily; "is that the name?" "Ay, ay, now I look again it is Trenchard. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. Do you think he'll pay it?" "I'm sure of it," replied Austin. I was a novelty. "I tell you what, Mr.
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