He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. “I can’t. "' Instead of regarding him, Jack glanced over the iron bannisters, and measured the distance. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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