“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. It will not cost you more than six hundred to reach your destination. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. S.
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