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Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. “You fill me with happiness, John.
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