"I've lost my wager. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now.
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