Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. ” It was the first time this controversy had become triangular, for all three of them were shy by habit. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. All this was the work of a minute. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy.
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