The inn was a military haunt. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. ’ ‘Gracious heaven, Gerald! If your dear mama could not drag you to the altar, I am hardly likely to succeed. It is what I have done. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. His face was very serious. .
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