He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. In short, more preparations were made than if a state criminal was about to be executed. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house.
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