Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. Have you seen much of her lately?” “Nothing at all,” he answered.
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