"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. Finally Lucy replied. Just as he had arrived at the mouth of the drain, and Jack felt certain he must be discovered, a loud shout was raised from the further end of the field that the fugitive was caught. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. John, I have something to say to you. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. She was frightfully hungry. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. That was the only sound he heard. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face.
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