She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Wait, though. Fortescue in the drawing-room, and actually shake hands with him in an entirely hopeless manner and hope everything would turn out for the best. He rose slowly and extended it. “Dear husband,” she murmured. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Oh, Jack! repent, while it is yet time, of your evil conduct. Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. “I am afraid your broken dinner engagement will not be so easy to explain.
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