About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. Ennison stood by her side. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote.
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