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My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. ’ ‘Quite right, Gerald,’ approved Lucilla. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. “We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed.
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