” It occurred to her that she had never seen her father dining out before, never watched him critically as an equal. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. You’d make a good Devil. “Bless you, sweetheart. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
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