The policy of this step was immediately apparent. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Sir John hesitated. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. It'll be turning over to-morrow. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.
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