‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. She donned her gloves. They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. " "No," answered the ruffian, moodily. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. She saw his lips yell, “Stop. He looked melancholy enough, it is true.
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