Later, when the Reverend Henry Dolby entered the Spurlock room, his wife and daughter trailing amusedly behind him, and beheld the strained eagerness on the two young faces, he smiled inwardly and indulgently. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. But we cannot discuss this here. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest.
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