’ ‘Lucilla,’ gasped Hilary, his cheeks reddening with wrath. I do not love any one. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable.
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