Lady Lescelles, graceful, very fashionably but quietly dressed, leaned back and watched her with shrewd kindly eyes. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse.
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