She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. That’s the fact about them. What is done cannot be undone. I’m afraid I’m a terribly clumsy fellow. ’ ‘And me,’ came the guttural response, ‘I will certainly murder you the very next time I am compelled to see your face.
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