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"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Prudence. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. Refused admittance, they broke open the door.
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