An uncomfortable silence followed. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. ’ ‘I thought so,’ Gerald said with satisfaction. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. If only to say goodbye. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe.
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