’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He has told me sufficient of you—" "My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake—" "I will speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; "I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—and what I think of her. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ‘You were right, miss. This spike is more than half cut through. You are somebody’s secretary, are you not?” It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it.
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