Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. " "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow. But you have not finished surely. " "An excellent maxim!" replied his wife, approvingly; "the best I ever heard you utter. ‘Hates doing the pretty. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them.
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