“You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. I ought to have gone long ago. “Please stop by.
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