After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. "Don't disturb yourself," said his follower, motioning him to keep still; "it's all right. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. "There he is!" cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only.
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