—BRENDON. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “I doubted my luck, at least. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by his companion's intemperance. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Two-and-twenty! I can’t imagine what your parents can be thinking about to let you get into these scrapes. “But a boy—a boy goes out into the world and presently stands on his own feet. Surely he was imagining this picture.
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