" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. "Well, it's a good story. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. I will go to-night. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service.
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