Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. "How is the patient?" he asked. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Her voice recalled him. Sir John saw it, and was flattered. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Oh! that I should live to be father-in-law to a peer of France! What would my poor wife say to it, if she could come to life again? Oh, Thames!—my lord marquis, I mean—you have made me the happiest—the proudest of mankind. .
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