They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. Hold your hand for a moment. " "They're lifting her out of the carriage," interposed Charcam; "will it please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?" "Fly for both," returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. They were silent for a time.
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