This circumstance produced no further alteration in his demeanour except that he endeavoured to abstract himself from the surrounding scene, and bend his attention to the prayers which the ordinary was reciting. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. She got up and unlocked the door. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you.
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