About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him. ” “But does it correspond with the facts of the case? You know, Mr.
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