The younger of the two, who was seated next to Jack, and seemed to monopolize his attention, could not be more than seventeen, though her person had all the maturity of twenty. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. You will only make me hurt you the more. This way, Sir Rowland.
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