Gerald grinned. Stones and brickbats were showered on all sides, and Mr. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “I will send you a copy,” Mr. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony.
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