" "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. The age of this individual could not be more than twenty-one; his figure was tall, robust, and gracefully proportioned; and his clear gray eye and open countenance bespoke a frank, generous, and resolute nature. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. “It was such a surprise to see you. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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