He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. Hoddy.
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