"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. 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. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails. She regarded the young man coldly. Ann Veronica considered her answer. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. "I shall state my suspicions to the governor. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon. No! not even the derivation! But the fashion’s been set and in it you must be. ’ Her gaze followed the butler, who was moving towards the door.
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