The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "Then you ought to be thankful to me for the warning. ” She whispered. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. " He offered cigars, and Ruth got up.
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