"Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. He moaned.
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