She did not know herself. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper. I was compelled to run away. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. I'm sure he'll do his best to content you. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him.
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