Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits to work to defeat the design. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. His smile faded. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full.
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