“You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. He was looking pale and ill. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. "Nothing more than this," answered Kneebone,—"that after the failure of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since, entirely secluded from the world.
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