” “It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?” “I felt impudent. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. Like the flaws of an old marble. " Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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