Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. Sebastian rose from the tomb.
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