"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. I'm hungry. ’ ‘How can you possibly enquire for her?’ demanded Hilary acidly. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees.
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