"Mr. You are not ‘Alcide. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Bête, she told herself fiercely. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night.
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