‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. CHAPTER XXVIII. Here he was almost stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. Wild here!" exclaimed Mrs.
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