She will tell you all the story while I am gone. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly.
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