She donned her gloves. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. “I’m not that beautiful. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. I'll go alone. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings.
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