The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. She felt the thrill race through her body. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. An unwelcome idea came to him. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine.
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