The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. Like a petulant child he snapped. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. To be jeune demoiselle, it is not always convenient. As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here.
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