The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. Wild, however, proved, on the evidence of his own servants, that he was at the Old Bailey at the time; and Sir Rowland proved that he was in Manchester. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking.
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