She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. F. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. He classified her as he seated himself. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding.
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