He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘And with my grandfather Charvill also so very angry, it was not perhaps so very comfortable for my father. "I did not come hither to consult you as to the state of my health, Sir," he observed, displeased by Jonathan's allusion to the alteration in his appearance.
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