"You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. G. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious.
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