He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous.
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