" "Blessings upon him!" cried Lady Trafford, fervently. "Back!" cried Jack fiercely: "lay a finger on her, and I will fell you to the ground. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Any one very badly moved choked down a few mouthfuls; the symptom of supreme distress was not to be able to touch a bit. "You can render no further service to your poor mother. "Tom Sheppard never said a better thing than that— ho! ho!" "Jack," cried his mother, wringing her hands in distraction, "you'll break my heart!" "Poh! poh!" returned her son; "women don't so easily break their hearts.
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