He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate.
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