‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. He had no ideas about daughters. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. Truth to tell, more damage had been done in the enthusiastic chase carried out by the militiamen detailed to catch it. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England.
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