There was all the knavery, and more than all the drollery of a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of the English apprentice; and, with a little more warmth and sunniness of skin on the side of the latter, the resemblance between them would have been complete. He had looked at it before without comprehension. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. But let that verse tell my secret. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her.
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