“Why?” he asked, suavely. He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off.
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