He had, for the most part, been correct. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. "I assure you, Sir, when I left him an hour ago, it was locked. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. Love anywhere. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. "That would be certain destruction. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. I believe I’m in love.
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