A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. ‘I think you know my affianced husband. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. "Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband.
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