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His voice had broken. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have been with us this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr.
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