He is a jolly-looking fellow, with an aureole of fiery red hair.
"Would you mind," say I, with panting appeal, "trying to make him understand that it _is not_ the shah ?" He complies, and, while he is trying to make it clear to his uncle that he wrongs me in crediting me with any wish to thrust the Persian monarch among the ashes of the Plantagenets, I take breath, and look round again.

Algy is eating nothing, and is drinking every thing that is offered to him.

His face is not much redder than Musgrave's, and he is glancing across the table at Mrs.Huntley, with the haggard anger of his eyes.

Of this, however, she seems innocently unaware.

She is leaning back in her chair; so is Roger.