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"Madam,"--my cap went higher, my head lower--"I never bet."

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

"No," replied Sergeant Jim, "I doubt if the most of 'em are." I turned to him and drew down my under eyelid. "Will you kindly tell me, sir, if you see any unnatural discoloration in there?"

"And yet you never take a lady's name for granted?"

"Why, I can read my safety in your face. You can't read anything in mine; you're afraid to look."

"Oh, no, no! I cannot let you!" She clutched the hand she had been stroking.

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