A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. ’ Hilary’s gaze was raking the room. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.
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