” She was altogether hysterical now. ’ ‘Why not?’ Gerald asked straightly. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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