So the talk went on. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone.
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