Who says that I am not Meysey Hill? I was trying to scare you. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. Vee’s all right. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. She leaned back in her chair. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. . She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. Or else he was indeed obsessed. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him.
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