Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. Ramage?” he asked.
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