“Nothing good; no fear of there being anything in store for such an unlucky dog as I am.”
“Where did she learn this wonderful black art of hers?”
“In the East, I believe. She has been there and all over the world; and now visits England for the first time.”
“She has chosen a sprightly season for her visit. Is she not afraid of the plague, I wonder?”
“No; she fears nothing,” said Ormiston, as he knocked loudly at the door. “I begin to believe she is made of adamant instead of what other women are made of.”
“Which is a rib, I believe,” observed Sir Norman, thoughtfully. “And that accounts, I dare say, for their being of such a crooked and cantankerous nature. They're a wonderful race women are; and for what Inscrutable reason it has pleased Providence to create them—”
The opening of the door brought to a sudden end this little touch of moralizing, and a wrinkled old porter thrust out a very withered and unlovely face.
“La Masque at home?” inquired Ormiston, stepping in, without ceremony.
The old man nodded, and pointed up stairs; and with a “This way, Kingsley,” Ormiston sprang lightly up, three at a time, followed in the same style by Sir Norman.
“You seem pretty well acquainted with the latitude and longitude of this place,” observed that young gentleman, as they passed into a room at the head of the stairs.