. . .Verily the only thing about the man that was braced and taut was his lavender trousers, strained by the straps under his soles.

'Mr. Holwood, sir,' said Dench, 'no; frankly, no. Not a wish, not a thought but to fasten her nails in your face, and tear your bottle-green coat off your back, as a wild cat might do. She loves you no more, she just about hates you with all her[45] flambustical temper. Certainly she don't want to see you again, least of all since she's took up with this Captain Rattenbury.'

Mr. Holwood winced. He wiped his lips with a silk kerchief and then his tall brow.

'If she were to see you, sir, it would be just like the sons of Sceva the Jew, as we read of in Scripture, and the possessed of the devil.'

'Merciful Heavens! Such an incident! if it should get into the papers! If that curate cousin of mine were to hear the faintest whisper of it his ears would go up like windsails.'

'Then, sir, go back to the Red . . . Read More