They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. Mr. Brendon. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. I know that you are all my friends, and I know that you all have very good advice to give me.
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