“It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. ” Lucy sat patiently as she was improved. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. " "The pianist?" "Yes. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. ‘Mademoiselle. " "Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt.
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