She stood up before him, smiling faintly. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. “You’re kidding, right?” “Not kidding at all. A cup of lies. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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