’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. "Try!" Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. ’ ‘Gammon,’ interrupted Hilary scornfully. “Why not?” “Because you are mine.
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