Purney, the ordinary, who had latterly conceived a great regard for Jack, addressed him in a discourse, which, while it tended to keep alive his feelings of penitence, was calculated to afford him much consolation. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees.
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