" "You see, we didn't know but you might die; and so we had to search your belongings for the address of your people. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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