He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them.
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