“What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. The life of a young girl is set about with prowling pitfalls. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. “I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle.
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