eye could see that it was of consequence to de Bosky. The old bookseller's heart was very tender.
"Don't drink too much of it," he warned, his face suddenly beaming. "You'll spoil your appetite for dinner." To the others: "Mr. de Bosky honours my humble board with his presence this evening. The finest porterhouse steak in New York— Eh, what?"
"It is I," came a crisp voice from the bottom of the narrow stairway that led up to the living-quarters above. Monsieur Mirabeau, his whiskers neatly brushed and twisted to a point, his velvet lounging jacket adorned with a smart little boutonnière, his shoes polished till they glistened, approached the circle and, bending his gaunt frame with gallant disdain for the crick in his back, kissed the hand of the young lady. "I observed your approach, my dear Miss Emsdale. We have been expecting you for ages. Indeed, it has been the longest afternoon that any of us has ever experienced."
Mr. Bramble frowned. "Ahem!" he coughed.
"I am sorry if I have intruded," began de Bosky, starting to arise.
"Sit still," said Thomas Trotter. He glanced at Miss Emsdale. "You're not in the way, old chap."
"You mentioned a book, Miss Emsdale," murmured Mr. Bramble. "When you came in, you'll remember."
She looked searchingly into Trotter's eyes, and finding her answer there, remarked:
"Ample time for that, Mr. Bramble. Mr. de Bosky is my good friend. And as for dear M. Mirabeau,—ah, what shall I say of him?" She smiled divinely upon the grey old Frenchman.
