" "Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Ennison paused by the little gate. A deadlock. ‘Do not be imbecile. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. But here’s what is different this time. But they’ve just been to see General Charvill. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Perhaps she would have to charge this man and appear in a police-court next day. When he said, “Let’s go and see the wart-hog,” she thought no one ever had had so quick a flow of good ideas as he; and when he explained that sugar and not buns was the talisman of popularity among the animals, she marvelled at his practical omniscience.
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