Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Cathy chimed. F. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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