" "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. Rank ingratitude, I call it. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. . ’ There was no denial in Martha’s face, though Melusine longed to hear her words contradicted. Mr. “I have been bearing this—for your sake. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. If he succeeds there, I do not know how I can prove myself. " CHAPTER XV.
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