Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. Spurlock has gone. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs.
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