The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Jonathan cast a hasty glance around, to see that all was properly arranged for his purpose; placed a chair with its back to the door; disposed the lights on the table so as to throw the entrance of the room more into shadow; and then flung himself into a seat to await Sir Rowland's arrival. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. ‘Here she is. ‘I should never have told you. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable.
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