“Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. "Saved!" "Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!" responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; "but, where are the lurchers?" "Who?" asked Wood. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. "If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination.
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