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"No," he muttered to himself. "Wotever he thinks of some goings-on, he
ain't blind nor deaf--that's certain. And I'd stake my character and
purfessional reputation on it--wotever he is, he's no fool!"
For once in his life, Briggs was right. He was generally wrong in his
estimate of both persons and things--but it so happened on this
particular occasion that he had formed a perfectly correct judgment.


CHAPTER XIX.
"Could you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet in its splendor swoon
Into the silence languidly,
As a tune into a tune?"
DANTE ROSSETTI.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady Bruce-Errington,
sat at breakfast with her husband in their sun-shiny morning-room,
fragrant with flowers and melodious with the low piping of a tame thrush
in a wild gilded cage, who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes
to himself very softly now and then, before venturing to give them
full-voiced utterance.


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