She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of London,—you are certain to meet with him. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. He drew a little breath and stepped back. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. The window was shortly after opened, and a rope ladder, with a lighted horn lantern attached to it, let down. Plote was sleeping or deaf. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression of his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of his threats to a more favourable opportunity. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been the still pools in the rocks after the ebb. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She had a warm, fun-loving personality, and an unflattering disrespect for her future husband’s authority.
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