‘The cat’s foot, Hilary. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It'll be your turn to save mine next. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. It is queer, but men of education and good birth fall swiftest and lowest.
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