She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “He is quiet only this minute,” she said to the official. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. "My portrait!" echoed Jack.
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