It ought not to be much. At the precise period of this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze.
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