It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. “Lady Mackinnor,” she said, “I am sure that you must have heard of Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether.
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