The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. "O, lud!" she cried; "French noblemen in disguise! and so rude as I was! I shall never recover it!" "A good supper will set all to rights," insinuated Kneebone. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside.
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