’ The lady’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully on the half-drawn sword and then came up to meet his, an odd look in her eyes. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. But it is not entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. He put an arm around her. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her.
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