’ ‘Eh bien. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "Where did you pick it up?" "I believe I told you; at Yale. “I am off to-night,” he said. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway.
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