CHAPTER I. Lucy entered the room. Mr. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. Sheppard stopped him. " "I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me about them now, or you'll drive me mad," returned Mrs. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned.
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