Jack turned away with an aching heart. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. We all get deceived sometimes.
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