was such that it could be expressed only in blank verse.

"The shop doesn't matter."

"No, but he does. You couldn't stand him, Lucia. You see, for one
thing, he sometimes drops his aitches."

"Well, if he does,--he'll be out all day, and there's the open country
to drop them in. I really don't mind, if you'd like to ask him. Do you
think he'd like to be asked?"

"There's no possible doubt about that."

"Then ask him. Ask him now. You can't do it when father's not at
home."

Jewdwine repressed a smile. Even now, from the windows of the east
wing, there burst, suddenly, the sound of fiddling, a masterly
fiddling inspired by infernal passion, controlled by divine technique.
It was his uncle, Sir Frederick, and he wished him at the devil. If
all accounts were true, Sir Frederick, when not actually fiddling, was
going there with a celerity that left nothing to be desired; he was,
if you came to think of it, a rather amazing sort of chaperone.

And yet, but for that fleeting and tumultuous presence, Horace himself
would not be staying at Court House. Really, he reflected. Lucia ought
to get some lady to live with her. It was the correct thing, and
therefore it was not a little surprising that Lucia did not do it. An
expression of disapproval passed over his pale, fastidious face.