She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. 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. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. "And you ran away with a weakling! You denied me for a puppet!" "My lawful husband.
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