And I find I can't tell one stay from another!" McClintock laughed. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. "I quarrel with no man's political opinions, but I will have my own respected!" "Eh day!" exclaimed Mrs. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. He was in front of one of the more imposing of the cafés chantants—opposite, illuminated with a whole row of lights, was the wonderful poster which had helped to make ‘Alcide’ famous.
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