How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Nasty, damp passages. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. ’ She stopped, her lips tightening. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger.
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