A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs.
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