But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. “What did it matter?” she cried. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink.
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