" "Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the watch upon us. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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