‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. “I say!” he cried.
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