There were the burnt papers still in the grate. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. She glared at him with satisfaction. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up.
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