In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. She was silent. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. . But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic.
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