“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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