" "Ah! indeed! what's he doing here?" inquired Jack. Very well. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. “Where am I?” he muttered. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint. ” “I promise,” Annabel declared. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. He guided himself between her legs.
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