“He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. It probably still wouldn’t help.
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