She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. “I shall be very glad to have you for a friend,” he said, “loving friend. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. In the present instance she did not want any interference; she did not want the doctor's wisdom to edge in between these two young fools and spoil the drama. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally.
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