Lady Evelyn — page 162: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“The Red Queen.” 155 “Ah, bah!” she would say, scowling at her oy7yn visage in the glass. “What a little fool you are! Hadn’t you sworn to hate all mankind, for her sake? Don’t you know, you little imbecile, that they are all alike, false, treacherous, selfish, and cruel as death? Haven’t you been sensible all along until now, and are you going to make an idiot of yourself because this ‘languid swell’ has handsome eyes and pays you compliments? An English- man, too—and you doubly bound to hate all English- men! Bah! Mignonnette, you little simpleton! I’m ashamed of you! Let him see your folly, and be served as your mother was before you!” So Mignonnette cuarded her secret with fierce jeal- ousy, disgusted with herself, and would have been torn to pieces by wild horses before she would give him—this particular him—one encouraging word, or look, or smile. On this bright April evening she was on her way to a certain patient of hers, whose right leg had been blown off by an explosion, and who was otherwise so seriously in- jured that the chances of his recovery were as ten to one. He lay—the last of a long, long row, the amber glitter of the sunset lighting his bloodless, pain-drawn face— awfully still and corpse-like. : “Mike,” the little Amazon said, bending over him, “I have come at last. I tried to be here sooner, but there were so many poor patients who had a word to sav to me that I could not. And how is it with you now?” The haggard face brightened, the dulled eyes lit up. “Ah, little queen, I knew you would come! God bless that tender heart that never forgets one of us! You'll write a letter for me, mam 'selle, to my poor old mother in Ireland ?” “Certainly, Mike, wiki pleasure—as many letters as you please, until you are able to write yourself. That will be soon, I am confident. What shall I say?’ “Well, vou see, mam’selle, it’s an old story, and a long story, and it’s more about another than myself. Its about a young nobleman, whose life I saved twenty years ago. The old mother nursed him, Mignonnette, and he was as dear to her as the apple of her eye. I’ve kept the story to myself by his orders for twenty years; but now, when I’ve one leg in the grave, it’s time I made a clean breast of it. I saved Lord Roderick Desmond's life, 900 Ss com ef a Ge (rend Fl igk AS icy,