"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. "Look at him!" Ruth looked. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. I have only seen your sister for a very brief time, and I am a little past the age when a man does headstrong things. I haven’t, anyhow. Perhaps I am still mad. Through no fault of her own. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected.
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