Wratislaw, whose soul was sick for high, clean winds and the great spaces of the moors, was thinking of Glenavelin and Lewis and the strong, quickening north.

His companion was furrowing his brow over some knotty problem in his duties.
In Pall Mall there was a lull in the noise, but neither seemed disposed to talk.
"We had better wait till we get to the House," said Beauregard.

"We must have peace, for I have got the most vexatious business to speak about." And again he wrinkled his anxious brows and stared in front of him.
They entered a private room where the fire had burned itself out, and the lights fell on heavy furniture and cheerless solitude.

Beauregard spread himself out in an arm-chair, and stared at the ceiling.
Wratislaw, knowing his chief's manners, stood before the blackened grate and waited.
"Fetch me an atlas--that big one, and find the map of the Indian frontier." Wratislaw obeyed and stretched the huge folio on the table.
The elder man ran his forefinger in a circle.
"There--that wretched radius is the plague of my life.

Our reports stop short at that line, and reliable information begins again some hundreds of miles north.