It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. "Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. Pitt endeavoured to dissuade him from attending in person, representing the great risk he would incur from the mob, which was certain to be assembled. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS.
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