A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. Nothing ensued. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.
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