A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. Jack was completely overcome. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. Our heads swim with the thought of being together.
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