XVI could hear the springs on the sofa strain as Mr. Brent shifted his heavy frame, and I got up quickly and hurried to the window, my knees weak then with the sudden relief of hearing a relaxed snore coming from the darkened room. The frail thin end of a wedge of hope pushed into my mind. At least Molly Brent was still safely at the farm. Mrs. Brent wouldn’t bring her home without his consent. He couldn’t yet have made up his mind entirely. He wouldn’t have come to see me if he had. If Colonel Primrose could talk to him, maybe there was some hope still. I’d forgotten, I expect, that when the hounds of hubris are in full cry, as they seemed to be on the trail of the Rufus Brents, hope’s a fool, a firefly light into the quicksands of despair.
It was a strange vigil I kept out there. There
