The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. ’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. I don’t suppose you could tell me even the derivation of suffrage if I asked you. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. Hopefully.
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