" As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. They struck her as cold and indifferent. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. Must be plenty of work for you to do. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it.
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