"My portrait!" echoed Jack. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly.
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