” “I can’t work. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland. The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream—the darkling current hurrying by—the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their way in ghostlike silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their note—the solemn shadows cast by the bridges—the deeper gloom of the echoing arches—the lights glimmering from the banks—the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary barge—the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned through the obscurity;—these, and other sights and sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a place. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay. ’ As a matter of fact, I am not. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. . . " And she burst into a wild hysterical laugh.
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