“Lucy Albert, sir. ’ ‘Like this?’ ‘Parfait. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself.
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