"Exactly; neither now, nor ever," repeated Sir Jekyl; "and we both know it can't possibly be poor—I mean anyone concerned in that transaction; so the likeness must be accidental, and therefore of no earthly significance—eh?"
Lady Alice, with elevated brows, fiddled in silence with some crumbs on the table with the tip of her thin finger.
"I suppose Beatrix is ready; may I ring the bell?"
"Oh! here she is. Now, bid grandmamma good-night," said the Baronet.
So slim and pretty Beatrix, in her cloak, stooped down and placed her arms about the neck of the old lady, over whose face came a faint flush of tender sunset, and her old grey eyes looked very kindly on the beautiful young face that stooped over her, as she said, in a tone that, however, was stately—
"Good-bye, my dear child; you are warm enough—you are certain?"
"Oh! yes, dear grandmamma—my cloak, and this Cashmere thing."
"Well, darling, good-night. You'll not forget to write—you'll not fail? Good-night, Beatrix, dear—good-bye."
"Good-night," said the Baronet, taking the tips of her cold fingers together, and addressing himself to kiss her cheek, but she drew back in one of her whims, and said, stiffly, "There, not to-night. Good-bye, Jekyl."
"Well," chuckled he, after his wont, "another time; but mind, you're to come to Marlowe."