’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. Ramage—about the forty pounds. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely. Gerald grinned. Wood. Spurling and Marvel.
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