For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake,” she said. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. Make up your mind as to the terms, and I'll engage to find the man. “You’ll have to take her!” shouted an inspector on horseback, and she echoed his cry: “You’ll have to take me!” They seized upon her and lifted her, and she screamed.
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