She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. Your servant, Mr. The theme was a masquerade. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs.
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