"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Each time also we quarrel, and even if you are laughing very much, you become angry. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. An hour was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan Wild. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. By this time, Jonathan and the vast mob attending him, had come up, and the place was rendered almost as light as day by the links. Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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