Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. It was a reputation by no means deserved.
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