She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. 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. And I do not know you. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. How could she tell him what indeed already began to puzzle herself, why she had borrowed that money at all? The plain fact was that she had grabbed a bait. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income.
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