He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He had thought it might have that effect. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Certainly not a gentlewoman. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. ’ ‘Don’t tell me,’ exploded his second-in-command.
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