Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. " "Alas!" cried Mrs. Surely it was a dream. That wasn’t even the worst thing. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. Fortescue in the drawing-room, and actually shake hands with him in an entirely hopeless manner and hope everything would turn out for the best. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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