Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt.
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