" "Murder him!" cried Trenchard shuddering. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. You'll do. I think you are hard. It won’t even know whether to be scandalized at us or forgiving. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account.
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