The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. "Leave the room instantly, sirrah!" rejoined the lady, bouncing up, and giving him a slap on the cheek that made his eyes flash fire. This ice was used for refrigerator purposes and for McClintock's evening peg. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Humph. No other white people within twenty miles.
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