You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. .
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