Your wedding will be here, of course ?" "Yes, but absolutely private." "You won't reject me when I offer good wishes?
There is no man living who likes you better than I do, or is more anxious for your happiness.
Shake hands again, old fellow.

I must hurry off." So they parted, and in a couple of hours Glazzard was steaming towards London.
He lay back in the corner of a carriage, his arms hanging loose, his eyes on vacancy.

Of course he had guessed Quarrier's opinion of the marriage he was making; he could imagine his speaking to Lilian about it with half-contemptuous amusement.

The daughter of a man like Mumbray--an unformed, scarcely pretty girl, who had inherited a sort of fortune from some soap-boiling family--what a culmination to a career of fastidious dilettantism! "He has probably run through all his money," Quarrier would add.

"Poor old fellow! he deserves better things." He had come to hate Quarrier.