“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. Sir John waved her back. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick.
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