"If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. It rather astonished him. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room.
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