’ ‘Oh,’ Gerald uttered, disappointed. Had to. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. . Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. ‘This was a picture of Mary Remenham that I have found today. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose.
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