"As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity.
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