“Not at all. ‘I haven’t been so much entertained since I left the Army. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands.
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