\" She cooed into his ear, stroking his chest hair. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution.
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