He spared me, although he saw I was engaged.

Perhaps it was because I 'm of no definite colour.

Or he thought I was not a receptacle for "passion." And quite true,--Adder, the dear good fellow, has none.

Or where should we be?
On a Swiss Alp, in a chalet, he shooting chamois, and I milking cows, with 'ah-ahio, ah-ahio,' all day long, and a quarrel at night over curds and whey.

Well, and that 's a better old pensioner's limp to his end for "passion" than the foreign hotel bell rung mightily, and one of the two discovered with a dagger in the breast, and the other a don't-look lying on the pavement under the window.