McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. "Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed hot the slightest discomposure. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. "No," replied Jonathan, "I'll not take you at your word, as regards the latter proposition. She could not run, her limbs were frozen.
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