“Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. He told her something about music, the great world outside. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. I have always been lonely. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. I should be sorry if Shotbolt got the reward.
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