" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. He'd never forgive you. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. She recalled him. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold.
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