CHAPTER XVIII. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. It was so difficult to put precisely. He was a philosopher. "My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Wood fancied he recognised. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. "I don't think that's likely. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. I came to the Beck’s house. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table.
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