The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. We think the whole thing is straight and noble at bottom, and it isn’t. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things.
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