She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. His struggles were so violent, that, being a man of tremendous strength, it was some time before they could master him, and it required the combined efforts of all the four partners to put him into irons. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much.
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