I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre.
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