Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. “I’m covered. And an Englishman, which is my right of birth. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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